I was an unsuspecting 7th grader, when my life was disrupted by a mission trip to a small border town in Mexico.  Up until then, I did not have the vaguest idea of what real poverty meant.  Didn’t everyone had matching sheets, pillow cases, much less, a bed to sleep on?  It was inconceivable to me that there were parents unable to feed their starving children.  The tragic reality seared its way into my DNA as I touched the faces and looked into the eyes of children that were not so different from myself except they were hungry, cold & forgotten.   Since then, I have not been able to escape the magnetic pull to do what little I can to meet the needs of the impoverished.

My daughter is in 7th grade, it’s spring break & I was becoming a bit desensitized to what true hardship was.  Worn thin by my own challenges, I had been losing sight of what really matters.  It was my hope that this experience would wake us up as a family & help us clear any confusion & create clarity.  Determined that this was the year – my 13 year old daughter & I –  “Dos Flacas” traipsed our way across the border to a small impoverished town somewhere between Tecate & Tijuana ready to swing hammers, build walls & share Tootsie Pops.